STORY OF AN ORPHAN

I am not a person who shows his emotions. Rather I stay in a corner and try to hide as much as possible. And I don't want questions, or reproachful looks. I don't want anyone to see me and think that maybe I need more affection, a shoulder to cry on, an outlet. My depression has nothing to do with any of this. Anyway, hello doctor. I read your name among the papers of my adoption: unfortunately a bit complex name and I can't remember it. At 18, I asked my adoptive parents for all the papers, you know? I already had curiosity when I was thirteen but in those days I was doing too much trouble and my mother thought that overnight I would run away from home or find me hanged somewhere. He said that Satan was in me. She also wanted to take me to an exorcist, and most of the time I would send her to fuck or scream a curse, then I invented the excuse that the devil had possessed me. I had a great time.
When I had the adoption papers in my hand, I photocopied them all and searched the internet. Doctor, let's say that somehow you disappeared too because bho I couldn't find you. Then there was that fucking newspaper article, written in a language unknown to me, I remember reading my presumed name, maybe the name you decided to give me, you have a lot of creativity, you know. There was my name and yours, I just didn't understand everything else and there was an image of a little girl who looked just like me when I was about 9 years old. I wanted to track you down to thank you, for taking me off the street and taking me with you. Maybe it's also thanks to you that I got this thing of having to save and help people. When I tell about this part of my life, people are always sorry. And it may seem really sad, but every time I talk about it I always think of you doctor. You gave me a fresh start, I love being here, but I miss my mum and my dad too. I regret only this of my life. I would like to know if you know anything, if you have actually ever known them, if at least you can describe their eyes, their scent, their voice. Did you have this luck, doctor? You know which of the two I look the most like. I want to know if my mom remembers me, I want to know if she still loves me, because I have never stopped loving her and thinking about her, even if I don't remember her, even if I have suffered all my life for the emptiness she has left inside me. Tell me if she came looking for me somewhere. If she ran to your hospital to find out where I was. Tell me she got angry, that she really never wanted me to grow up on my own. I still feel I belong to that world and I hope to return soon, in that same street maybe where you found me, doctor. To be aware that it all started from there and to be able to live it peacefully, without tears. The thing I want most would be to see them from afar, perhaps holding hands and kissing in the streets of the market. I wish it were so. I couldn't tell her about my life, it was an obstacle course. Doctor, tell my parents I'm fine. Tell him that even if I haven't reached any milestones in my life for now, I will get to have more money, to do something I enjoy. Tell them I miss them so much.

Love, the little girl you picked up from the street.

MY FATHER AND A PEN

My father, from when he got up to when he went to bed, only opened his mouth to say nice things to someone, something and to the whole universe. If a pen dropped from his hands he was unable to get angry but it was said that it was necessary. I am giving this example because the majority of people today are not at this point. They are like immature and grumpy parrots, they keep repeating how the world is falling apart and do not understand that they are supporting it as well. All they do is talk, shout, feed and get angry. If you know chronically irrecoverable people and can’t get away from their shit, look for any solution to recharge yourself. It is no longer time to reach out to them with empathy and understanding. What hangs over everyone’s heads is a much heavier test than the shit that others drag around and continually throw up on others. Today we need the utmost clarity and inner consistency to face the game. Remain silent and reflect on your situation. Do something but no need to scream. Doing something for others is a silent and beautiful action. These angry people suck the lifeblood no matter if they are aware of it or not. Raising the defenses, not just immunity, is a sacrosanct right that belongs to you and which you must take note of. Anger is contagious and therefore we must detach ourselves from those people who have hatred for everyone and everything. (I am referring to the anger of the dull, not to a physiologically normal emotion)

STORY OF AN EMPTY CART

I was walking with my father, when suddenly he stopped at a bend and after a short silence I wonder: "Besides the song of the sparrows, do you hear anything else?" I pricked my ears and after a few seconds I replied: "The noise of a cart". “Right - he told me. And an empty cart ". I asked him: "How do you know it's an empty cart if you haven't seen it yet?" He replied: "It's easy to understand when a cart is empty, since the more empty it is, the more noise it makes". I became an adult and even today when I see a person who talks too much, interrupts the conversation of others, is intrusive, boasts of the talents he thinks he has, is bossy and thinks he can do without others, I have the impression of listening to the voice of my father who says: "The more the cart is empty, the more it makes noise"

STORY OF NUVOLA FRESCA

Long before the white man arrived,
in a Cheyenne village lived a little girl whose
name was Nuvola Fresca.
One day the little girl said to her mother, Last Evening Sigh: "When night falls, a black bird often comes to feed, pecks at pieces of my body and eats me until you arrive, light as the wind and chase it away.
 But I don't understand what all this is.
With great maternal love Last Sigh Of the evening reassured the little girl by saying: "the things you see at night are called dreams and the black bird that comes is only a shadow that comes to save you" Nuvola Fresca replied:
"But I am so afraid, I would like to see only the white shadows that are good".
Then the wise mother, she knew it would be cruel to close the door to the fear of her child, invented a round canvas with which to fish the dreams of the night, then gave the object a magical power: to recognize good dreams, that is, those useful for growth. spirituality of the little one, from the bad ones, that is, false and deceptive.
Last Sigh of the Evening built many dream catchers and hung them on the cradles of the children of the village.
As the children grew, they embellished theirs with expensive objects and gradually the magical power grew, grew, grew together with them ... Each Cheyenne keeps its own dream catcher for life, as a sacred object bearer of strength and wisdom.
Even today the Cheyenne Indians build a dream catcher every time a child is born in the village and place it on his cradle. With a special wood, very ductile, they shape a circle, which represents the universe and inside it a web similar to that of a spider. The cobweb will therefore be entrusted with the task of capturing dreams. If it is a question of positive dreams, the dream catcher will entrust them to the thread of the beads (forces of nature) and make them come true. If, on the other hand, he judges them negative, he will entrust them to the feathers of a bird and have them carried away far away, scattering them in the skies.

STORY OF A GRANDMOTHER

"Grandma, I can't stand a person."

"Bless her, my child. Because she is showing you parts of yourself that you cannot accept. You see them reflected in her. They hurt you, like blades entering your depth, because it is the only way to attract your attention. Thanks to you can see that person and integrate them into you. "

"Should I bless those who can't stand?"

"That's right! Everything that happens outside of you is a mirror of your inner self. It is showing you the way to enrich yourself more and more. Change your way of thinking about life. Fly high with your mind: look for the symbol, the meaning that your emotion has come to carry you, begin to see every person you meet in your path as a reflection of parts of you. Don't waste time on stupid complaints, superficial chatter and the usual prejudices. You have a treasure to find. Every time. your energies in this great task! "

"What an effort, grandmother ..."

"It is more tiring to stop complaining. And carry it like a burden, day after day. It immobilizes you, takes away precious energy, hinders you. Become a hunter of meaning. Go beyond people, facts, news."

"I do not know how to do it..."

"There is only one teacher who can guide you in this. You will never find it outside of you. It is your feeling. Your annoyance, your well-being, your anger ... are messengers of your Truth."

"And how do I integrate the parts of me that I don't welcome?"

"Respect what you feel, celebrate it, lift it up. Every emotion is sacred: if you can glimpse even a minimum of richness, the rest will come by itself. You will have new eyes, able to see beyond any wall. They are the eyes of your soul. ! "

STORY OF A TRIP

I was wondering “I, for example, why did I want to become a writer?
Indeed, for what reason the writer himself? "
I looked for the deep memory that was to be connected to this choice, one of those that embodies the moment of the "crossroads". I remembered my high school literature teacher who said he had to leave a mark or, perhaps, I made up this memory; probably, I was just someone who, like all the deluded kids of my TV generation, had found a job with which to become famous.
At the time, for TV, they were the footballer, the showgirl, the singer, the actor, the actress, the presenter, which was a bit of a sociological thing, indeed, precisely, it was often a real "sociological consequence", such as for those of the generation before ours, that of our parents who, after Apollo 11, all wanted to be an astronaut and the girls, on the other hand, all wanted to become dancers, probably because they saw the first true female freedom on one black and white screen.
Plastic dreams that smell like food until you start biting into them.
Generations and generations of astronauts and dancers, of footballers, of actresses and actors, of volleyball players thanks to Mila and Shiro, of dreams that have often been broken and that have not been realized.
Now there is another screen, full of colors, to always carry with you: now there is the internet, the phenomena of the web, the InstaStars, the TwitterStars, the fashion bloggers, the influencers and us who often do not we don't even have an influence on our life.
I wondered what this dream pursued over time of wanting to be a writer was, I wondered what it had brought in my pocket to follow it until then.
That day I had practically reached the breaking point of my life where it is as if I woke up to look underneath my dream in the drawer and saw that it said IKEA. 
The stimuli to write my first real book, in fact, had been lost, faded over time and, frankly speaking, after this dismissal at the hotel I was no longer even convinced if I had really been cut out to be a writer.
I had written the book “17 years, in the summer” which had sold a good number of copies, it sells some now and then even now. I had published it at 19 only because a publisher had smelled the scent of easy money for the "kids" target, but I am still ashamed of most of the text, since then I have only published articles in music magazines and my very first book , the one heard, the one on which you spit blood and sweat I had not yet written.
That book published as a teenager, on the other hand, was about revenge, drugs, alcohol, identity research at the end of school, but it was only a summer love story with the usual late-adolescent problems; reading it now would perhaps even be a bit ridiculous, perhaps even 12-year-olds wouldn't read it now. Many of those teenage problems, socially speaking, are over now, or at least they want to believe they are, because perhaps it is most of adolescence now that seems over. Now, adolescence seems more like a very early adulthood, there is a too strong gap between childhood and adulthood, or at least much faster, some things, some actions, even some mistakes must be made in the "wrong age" "Right; this was the basis of the book with which I raised some money to round up: "If you smoke a joint at 10 instead of 15, if you already fuck at 12 instead of a few years later, if you don't enjoy some things before you know how to enjoy others, then you skip the steps too much, my friend. "
There was such bullshit about this book published at just nineteen.
It is true that I still think so briefly, but with the maturity and non-pride of thirty, at this moment, I know that I am nobody to tell you how you should live your adolescence or your life, therefore of that book, the I repeat, I am ashamed, even if they are right things they do not reflect respect for others and this is worth much more. However, if a story is written in a certain way, even at seventeen and published at nineteen, it can be enjoyable for those who are going through those problems and emotions and also for those who want to remember them.
However, without the purity of time in recounting the events of the protagonists, that book would certainly not have sold more than copies equal to the number of my aunts who, even if buying it, would still have complained about the fact that I had not given it to them at Christmas.
Maybe it's that I was no longer hungry to write, maybe I worked too many years in that hotel among the rich, maybe I bought too many useless things, maybe I should find a good girl by my side and stop being infatuated with those a little more crazy, but I don't even want one that, as they say, “Where do you leave it”.
Leaving the hotel behind me, I said to myself: “Maybe I should send everything to that country and take a trip. Yes, a trip.

STORY OF A SUNSET

- You're beautiful.
SUNSET - Eh, modesty aside ...
- But you put on some restlessness.
- Because?
- Hide something. I bet you are a metaphor.
- You found me out.
- Why do you behave like this?
- I'm a sunset. Being a metaphor is my job. People look at me, think about the end of something and cry.
- And this thing amuses you?
- Enough. We sunsets are sadists who feed on your tears. A sunset that doesn't make you cry is doing everything wrong.
- What kind of metaphor are you this time?
- I'll tell you right away. What are you looking at?
- You.
- Where I am?
- On the desktop.
- How long have you not watched a real sunset?
- Months. Maybe years.
- I'm a metaphor for that.
- Real sunsets?
- A part of you.
- I'm crying. You are a bastard.
- It's my job. Do not get mad. I am a sunset. I make people cry.

STORY OF A CIGARETTE

- sorry, would you have a cigarette? -
He saw her every morning. He knew she was one of those good girls, who never smoked. He wasn't the type. But he asked him; not so much for the cigarette as for talking to her. Just to see her lips in a dance just for him, to tell him something, anything. For him.
- no sorry. Still better for you, right? Smoking is bad -
- bad? Bad for what? -
- ah I don't know. Brain, lungs ... heart -
- what if one smokes to forget the harm they have done to his heart? -
- then in that case he needs help. He's killing himself. But I'm not a doctor, I can't know -
- Help? Guy? -
- like love. -
- and what is love like? -
- it's like when you smoke a cigarette and take his soul, but then it gets inside and kills you. But sometimes it's not like that -
- and how is it, the other times? -
- it's like when you kiss a strong person so that he can get inside you, and that person could kill you instead he chooses to save you. -
- then? -
- and then he hugs you and puts your heart close to his -
- and you? -
- I what? -
- you don't smoke. Do you have a person who can save you? -
The girl laughed.
- they were just metaphors. I don't believe in love. It was a nice way to tell you that smoking is bad for you, just like love does -
- you must have huge scars in there. -
The girl looked down.
He took her hands, looked up and saw those dead and empty and dark eyes.
- we will have to learn to hurt each other, what do you say? -
- what are you talking about? -
- I save you and you save me. Make love. We hurt each other together. Maybe every day or even every hour. But we keep ourselves alive, because we hold hands. So, are you there? -
- what if we end up killing ourselves? -
- what if we end up loving each other? -

STORY OF A NYMPH

Clizia was a young nymph, lost in love with the Sun, so she followed him all day while he drove his chariot of fire throughout the sky. The sun, at first was flattered and a little touched by that devotion … he thought he was in love with her in turn and decided to seduce her, which was not difficult for him! But soon the Sun got tired of Clizia’s love and gave her, as they say … the welcome by turning his attention elsewhere. The poor nymph wept continuously for nine whole days.

STORY OF A DAD AND HIS SON

Son: "Dad, can I ask you a question?"
Dad: "Sure, what's it about?"
Son: "Dad, how much money do you make in an hour?"
Dad: “None of your business. Why are you asking me such a question? "
Son: “I just wanted to know. Please tell me, how much money do you make in an hour? "
Dad: "If you really want to know, I earn 30 € in an hour"
Son: “Oh! (with head down)
Son: "Dad, would you lend me 15 €?"
The father was furious.
Dad: “The only reason you asked me was to borrow some money to buy a stupid toy or some other nonsense, now you go straight to your room and go to bed.
Think about why you are becoming so selfish. I work hard every day and then get this childlike attitude of yours.

The little boy went quietly to his room and closed the door.
The man sat down and became even more angry thinking about the boy's question. How did he dare to ask me such a question just to get some money?
After an hour or so, the man calmed down and began to think:
Maybe there was something he really needed to buy with € 15, he doesn't ask for money very often.
The man went into the little boy's room and opened the door.

Dad: "Are you sleeping, son?"
Son: “No dad, I'm awake”.
Dad: “I was thinking, maybe I was too hard on you before. It was a hard day for me today and I unloaded on you. These are the € 15 you asked for ”.

The little boy sat down immediately and began to smile.
Son: "Oh, thank you dad!"
Then, from under his pillow, he pulled out some crumpled bills. The man saw that the child already had money, and began to get angry again. The little boy slowly started counting his money, and then looked at his father.

Dad: "Why do you want more money if you already have some"?
Son: “Because I didn't have enough, but now yes”.
“Dad, I have 30 € now. Can I buy an hour of your time? Please come back early tomorrow. I'd like to have dinner with you. "

Previous Older Entries

%d bloggers like this: